Of all the sounds in the world, running water is one of my favorites. In spring (or near spring, as we have seemed to drop back into winter for a few days here in Central Vermont), the sound and sight of flowing water means thaw. It means birds returning and snow melting and damp pasture grasses revealing the gold bodies of their autumn blades.
Inside the yurt, though, the sight of flowing water brings me to my feet and has me whooping with excitement.
I came home last night to see Edge’s body half submerged in the hole under our sink, where a line connects a hand pump to our shallow-dug spring. Last winter, the line froze, and in an attempt to thaw it with a torch, the line ended up with a hole in it. Come summer, we always found ourselves too busy, with the water line at the bottom of our to-do list (and hauling water in the summer isn’t so hard). Come winter, we figured it’d freeze again anyway. When the March snows softened, hauling water suddenly became a drudge with east post-hole step uphill.
So it both excites me and relaxes me to say, our hand-pump is working. It may not be the turn of a faucet, but that water sure does look like its running as it pours into the sink.